Hark, Sweet Cricket

Through the late summer and early fall our woods resound with the relentless cacophony of raucous insects. Cicadas, crickets, and katydids maintain a constant racket—cicadas taking the day shift, katydids covering the night shift, while the crickets are freelancers who set off any time (most all the time) they please.

I’m amazed at the amount of acoustic power these tiny critters can generate. Some folks consider the sound of a cricket to be melodic. Not me. Occasionally one of these noisemakers decides to invade the house. Oh, joy! Legend has it that a cricket in the house at the end of the season brings good fortune. So our luck must be on the upswing, because we've had several fall cricket invasions the last couple of years. This gift of cricket luck seems to me to be a mixed blessing, however.

While I can't attest to any good luck brought us by our most recent singing resident, I can confirm that he can become extremely irritating. His favorite singing spot is in the kitchen, behind the freezer. He seems to know that the little echo space he’s found augments his calls, while the body of the freezer keeps me from getting at him. For much of the day—and far too much of the night—the cricket sends out his raucous call, oblivious to the fact that no eligible female can respond to him while he remains in the house.

On the third morning of his visit, as Mr. Cricket began to call, I noted with excitement that he had moved! His irritating noise now came from under the computer. Aha! Maybe this was my chance to get him. If I could manage to capture him, I could escort him back outdoors and invite him to sing in much closer proximity to his fellow (female) critters.

Getting down on my knees, I gazed into the tangled maze of computer wires. Of course, as soon as he sensed my presence, he fell silent. I retreated. He soon began his call. I advanced. He stopped. We engaged in this dance a few times, until he got a bit complacent and continued his calling even when my face was close by.

There he was, hiding under a glob of wires! I grabbed a plastic cup—hoping to plop it down over him and prevent his escaping back behind the freezer. I lifted the cup, aiming at him, but he ducked farther back. Soon we were doing another type of dance, as the cricket feinted in one direction and I followed with my cup at the ready.

Eventually, he hopped into the clear. With great precision, like a skilled Samurai warrior, I aimed my cup and trapped him! I grabbed a card, slid it under the cup, and carefully lifted the makeshift cricket cage. Walking outside, I headed towards some brush where another cricket was calling. I lifted the cup and Mr. Cricket took a mighty leap towards freedom. I smiled, waved goodbye, and retraced my steps to the once-again quiet house.

The culture that created the legend of receiving good luck from a house cricket would possibly frown on my deed. Did the capture and banishment outdoors of this cricket cancel his gift of good luck? Did my unkind thoughts about the cricket's racket even foster a little bad luck? I don’t know, but I choose to take solace in the possibility that the cricket would have slowly perished of starvation behind the freezer (despite the many popcorn pieces that have fallen back there, over the years). I choose to believe that I saved him from much anguish and suffering so that at least I might be free of any cricket curse.